


free

by pendragonfics



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Klaus Hargreeves, Banter, Ben Hargreeves is Alive, F/M, Female Reader, Good Brother Luther Hargreeves, Libraries, Luther Hargreeves Being an Asshole, Luther Hargreeves Has a Human Body, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) Has a Name, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Officer Diego Hargreeves, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Witness Protection, reader has ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-09-23 04:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: Since the last stint in witness protection fell through, Detective Hargreeves escorts _________, the sister of a wanted man into protective custody with his foster brother, Luther. While she doesn't know what to think and feel about more confinement, she also doesn't quite understand her new custodian.And despite herself, shewantsto.





	1. the handover

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for clicking to read this story. I'm writing this fic because I'm head over heels for Luther Hargreeves, and have been since the show first came out. I'm also at university, which puts a dampener on my posting schedule. I write when I can, and for that, please be patient with me. School ends in November, so fingers crossed that I'll be more active then. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy reading _Free_, a story idea that I have ruminated upon for a while now!

The ride out of the city takes longer than what Detective Diego Hargreeves had told you. It’s an extra hour, and you drum your fingers softly against the door of his car. It’s not the cruiser that you’re used to riding around in; it’s a restored muscle car, the seats covered in squeaky-clean leather, the cassette player intact in the dashboard. Detective Hargreeves focuses on the road; he’s taking the back way to a little town you’ve forgotten the name of, to throw off anyone trying to follow.

“Couldn’t I have just gone into witness protection again?” you break the long-kept silence.

“That didn’t work last time.”

“So, I’m just going to the country?” you ask, feeling a pang of regret.

Not that you didn’t like the countryside; you weren’t at all bothered by the great outdoors, and the whole idea of fresh air. You’d been raised on a cattle farm until you had moved to the big city. No, that wasn’t the problem at all. It was the circumstances that were returning you back to your roots.

“_______, you and me both know that distancing you from those guys is for the best until my squad has them doing time.” Detective Hargreeves interjects, and in a different tone, less formal, he adds, “and I know all too well about people getting on the wrong side of things, for their family.”

You quirk an eyebrow, not quite feeling impressed. “and I’m supposed to go along with all of this?”

He smirked back at you, this time, meeting your eyes in the rear-view mirror. “If you want to live, sure.”

* * *

By the time you made it to the place, it was well after dark. But even in what little moonlight was shed, you got the idea that this was a very small town. Detective Hargreeves drove straight past the _welcome! _sign, and as you flew through the tiny town, you noticed it had a very old-timey charm. But instead of slowing down, the car kept on, and you felt your heart drop. It was starting to get late, later than you had been out in a long time.

Detective Hargreeves must have noticed your tension and, shifting into a lower gear, he said, “Not too long now, _______.”

You nodded, holding your hands in your lap. “Who’re you taking me to, anyway?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “It’s best if you know as little as possible.” He turns a corner, barely using his indicator, and the car shudders up an unkempt gravel driveway. It’s very dark out here, but as you look out the windows, you can see the stars clearer hear than you ever could in the city. “I know you’re unsure about this -,”

“I just want my life back,” you snap.

“I get that. But if you keep your head down here, you’ll give us our best chance at getting the people responsible.” He pulls the car into a small alcove and cuts the engine. “That’s all I ask.”

It’s now you can see the house at the end of the driveway, bathed in the light of Detective Hargreeve’s headlights. It’s a small house, and from the look of it, perhaps the original farmhouse for the plot of land. You can make out brick and shiplap in the yellow-orange glow, just before he switches the headlights off.

“I’ll try my best,” you whisper, unable to look at the detective, “- just…get the bad guys.”

Detective Hargreeves laughs.

He and you get out of the car, and as soon as you’ve got your bag slung over your shoulder, a sensor light picks up the movement, washing you both in artificial blinding white light. A figure appears from inside, and stills at the porch, watching. You can’t see much, but squinting, you can see that the person’s frame is wide, and built somewhat like a Ken doll on steroids.

“Diego?” the person says.

Detective Hargreeves guides you around the front yard, and you both approach the porch. “The one and only, Luther.” He replies, a heavy smothering of snark in his tone. As you near the porch, you start to make out his features; a square jaw framed with a turtleneck, cold eyes, close-cropped blonde hair. His jaw is set, and he looks between Detective Hargreeves and you, like a grey wolf inspecting its prey. “Sorry that we’re late.”

“You’re never sorry.” Luther narrows his eyes.

You watch the exchange, silent. Luther towers over Detective Hargreeves, and you wonder how the two know each other. If you had thought that the policeman that had driven you here had given off an imposing aura, the big man before you surely did. But the tension that you read between the both dissolved, as soon as Detective Hargreeves placed a hand on your shoulder.

“This here is _______. The one I talked to you about?” he intoned.

“Yeah, you talked to me about something…but I never agreed to anything.”

You look down at your feet, feeling something like a third wheel in the argument before you. If you were Detective Hargreeves, you’d apologise, and turn the car around. But you neither were him or knew anything about driving stick - so there went the plan of stealing his keys, and running off - so you stood there, watching what was unfolding. More words were shared, and you stayed quiet, hands tight on the strap of your bag.

“Come on, please.” Detective Hargreeves plead. “Number one?”

The big man recoiled at those words. It must have meant something to him, and like clockwork, he took in a deep breath and looked to you. It felt strange to be inspected, and yet, as he looked over you, you looked closer at him. His hands had been in fists, and now, his fingers were recoiling slowly, a slight shake to his fingers. His shoes were worn, scuffed on the edges. He stood in a way in which favoured one side, tilting his shoulders in a way -

“Fine.” He concluded. “I’ll do it.”

You thank Detective Hargreeves and follow Luther inside the farmhouse. It’s warm inside and dimly lit by the fireplace that flickers in the wall. The house is small inside, with whitewash walls and wooden floors that creak under your feet. There’s a hand-painted sign over the fireplace, _Home Is Where the Heart Is_. You turn to Luther as you hear him latching the front door shut.

“I - your room is this way.” He says, and you follow him past the fireplace, to a door beside the pantry. He opens the door and flicking on the light, you walk in first. It is a bedroom; there’s a braided rug at the foot of a single bed, and at the window, a little desk. “It’s not much, but -,”

You shake your head at that, “No, it’s nice. Thank you.” You turn to him and placing your bag on the bed, you hold your hand out to him, “Detective Hargreeves didn’t introduce us properly. I’m _______ _______.”

He considers your hand, and hesitantly, he shakes it. “I’m Luther Hargreeves.” He announces.

“…as in Detective Hargreeves, ‘_Hargreeves’_?” you ask, curious. He lets go of your hand and turns to leave.

“The one and only.”

* * *

By the time you fell asleep, it left little time to dream. But perhaps, that was for the better. The sun streamed through the window as if it were a portal to a faerie dimension, and if that wasn’t what woke you, it was the clamour of clanking metal that did. It felt surreal like last night hadn’t happened at all, but as the clanking continued, you concluded that it had, truly happened. Pulling on fresh clothes, you emerged from the room, trying to find the source of the noise.

In the morning sunshine, the house looked less foreboding. The whitewashed walls looked charming, the brick fireplace dormant, with trinkets scattered upon the mantle. The kitchen was empty of the homeowner and curious, you kept at your hunt. There were two doors, either side of the hallway beside the front door. One ajar, the other locked. You moved past them, and peeking, saw a quaint bathroom, with a wide farmhouse tub with a shower affixed to the wall, and another braided rug upon the floor.

You were about to inspect further, but more of the same noise rang out. You backstepped from the bathroom, and twisting the front door handle, you stepped into the glaringly bright sunshine of the outdoors. You can see where Detective Hargreeves’ muscle car had torn up the grass near the porch, and beside the house, adjacent to the side where the bedrooms were a built-in garage.

_That explains the noise_, you thought, moving toward the entrance of it.

It was a regular-looking garage that looked like it had stayed in the mid-twentieth century, much like the rest of the house’s aesthetic. The door that was rolled above looked to made of panelling, and manually operated, and inside, lit by a couple of naked light bulbs, swinging in the breeze, was Luther Hargreeves. You must have been quieter than what you thought because the broad-shouldered man kept at what he was doing. There were two cars in the garage, tail to tail; the one closer to the entrance, you could see clearer. It looked new and was jacked up from the ground, the owner of the house lay beneath it on a skateboard. You couldn’t quite get a look at the car in the back, but from what you could see, it looked neglected.

“Good morning?” you call out.

The skateboard slides from beneath the car, and Luther cranes his neck to look at you. There’s grease on his cheeks, and his hands are dirty. But he’s wearing clothes that cover his whole body; a navy turtleneck, and slacks. Didn’t mechanics in all the movies _only _wear wife beaters?

“Morning,” he grunts, returning to his full height. A beat passes between you both, and in the silence, you waver where you stand like a candle in the wind. As he looks at you, you look at him, and you find yourself at an impasse. “…can I help you with anything?” he asks.

You shrug. “Unless you can get the guys who are after me, then no,” you reply. He stares at you, somewhat phased; there’s more silence, and you break it, a small grin breaking upon your face. “…I’m kidding, jeez.” You gesture to the car he had been working on. “Is this yours?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You approach him and the car. He straightens his back, uncoiling to his full height. The man before you is built like a bear, and perhaps could take on one, too. But as he moves, your eyes catch on a marbled patch of scar tissue, a thin streak that peeks from under his ear, under his turtleneck.

As soon as you see it, he fixes his collar, and it is hidden.

“So, you fix cars?” you venture.

“I…I fix cars.” He says, gruff.

That can’t be all of it! But when you expect more, you’re met with silence, just as before. If you were talking to anyone else (aside from perhaps Detective Hargreeves), it would be okay. But this guy? You hardly knew him.

“Come on, I’m going on a limb here,” you plead. “You fix cars…?”

“…I do the long-term fixes that the shop in town needs out the way.”

Was that the longest sentence you’d ever heard him speak? You place a hand on the bonnet, flicking the switch under the front to raise the hood. “My brother’s the one into cars. I would’ve gotten his Ford if he -,” you catch yourself blathering, and stop the words before they can dance from the tip of your tongue. You stand there, staring at the engine, frozen. After a moment you close the bonnet and add as if nothing had happened, “If you ever need a spotter, I can help.”

“I’m fine, actually.” Luther nods, wiping his hands on a rag.

“That’s cool,” you fold your hands over your chest.

“…but if I need any help, I’ll shout.”

It was that moment when you heard it. You were sure that it was just a special effects noise on the television, but there it was: the sound of your stomach rumbling. He must’ve also heard it because it was then he went to move toward the house.

“I suppose it’s time for breakfast.” He said. He glanced behind himself and seeing you still where you had stood, gestured for you to follow. “What are you waiting for, then?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“If you’re going to stay here,” Luther starts, mounting the stairs of the porch two at a time with his gait, “you’re going to help around. Meal prep, cleaning, your own washing -,”

“So, no different to business as usual?” you retort.

You weren’t sure since it happened so quickly, but as you said that, Luther looked to you, and there might have - you’re not sure if it had been a trick of the light, or your mind playing games - been a little smile. But it’s gone as soon as it’s there, and you both continue.


	2. the two mechanics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting to grow stir-crazy, _______ invites herself to a ride with Luther into town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to slow-down on writing (it's assessment season at uni y'all), so here's the next chapter that I've racked up for you all! hope you like it xx

The days that pass go insufferably slow. At first, you think it’s a cruel trick of the universe. It’s not. You spend your days flicking through novels like they’re picture books, sat on the porch until the evening makes the air frigid and your breath visible. Luther does not talk much, keeping to himself and his car. Despite the fact you have no phone, there’s no contact with the outside world besides the landline nailed to the wall. But even then, you can’t remember any phone numbers beside the ones repeated in TV jingles. Every morning, you wake to mark it on paper, and any spare moment is spent glancing to the clock.

You survived witness protection once, and that was fine. A piece of cake. But this? Living under the same roof with a reclusive giant of a man? You’d spent more talkative vacations before your parents’ divorce.

“I’m going into town,” Luther announced over breakfast, mouth half-full of food. It was quarter past six, fifteen minutes after when both of you had gotten into a routine of waking up at. As per usual, you both worked silently at making your food; yours, some sort of muesli, his, pancakes. And now, both of you sat at the table.

“I’m coming with.” You barely even blinked.

He hesitated. “It’s just to take the car back.”

You cocked your head, looking to him. Though the table wasn’t that big, there was a distance between the both of you. You took in his face, the stubble over his lower face, shoulders hunched over his food. Leaning toward him, you repeat, “I’m coming with. I’ve been here for what, a billion years?”

“Three weeks.”

“Same thing. I don’t do housebound.” Putting your spoon down with a clatter, you add, crossing your arms, “Besides, if you didn’t notice, I’ve read all your books.”

He nods.

You’re not sure if that’s an acknowledgement that you’ve read all the novels - titles like _The Great Gatsby _and _Frankenstein _and also _If Minds Had Toes _and _101 Football Facts For Gridiron Fanatics_ \- but as Luther rises from his seat at the table, he talks, as he cleans what’s left of his breakfast as if he’s in a sudden hurry.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself in public,” he says, sounding very much like his brother. You watch him, annoyed, somewhat dubious; of course, you would lay low - it wasn’t like you _wanted _to be in the crossfire of what Detective Hargreeves helped you escape. “…there’s a library there if you want to get more books.”

You blinked, unsure. What was this, Luther being _nice_?

“Unless you want to re-read -,”

“I’ll get my jacket.”

The ride into town was slower than when Detective Hargreeves drove. Perhaps it was because Luther drove the speed limit. It made sense; it wasn’t his car. The engine purred like a big cat, and from what you knew about cars, what Luther had tinkered with had fixed whatever had been wrong. In the morning light, the trees looked less foreboding beside the road, filtering their light like they were silk curtains or the effects of magic.

Just as the car pulled into the mechanic’s driveway, you notice the sign.

_Hargreeves & Hargreeves Autobody and Motor._

“I didn’t know you owned this place.”

Luther folded himself from the driver’s seat. “I don’t.”

But before you could feel a swell of dull rage against your quasi-captor, the roller-door entrance to the shop rolled upward, and out came a man who looked quite certifiably odd. If it weren’t for the overalls and stain of grease already over his skin at seven in the morning, you’d think he broke into the place, but he had an air to him which made your eyes linger longer. Perhaps it was the curly hair, the wonky smile, a smear of liner or dirt around his eyes.

“Big guy! Bring it in, man!” he cries out, approaching Luther with wide arms. “It’s been too long!”

“It’s been a month.” He says, his tone deadpan.

It’s strange to see him so uncomfortable; he’s the larger man of the two, and yet, with the mechanic’s arms wrapped around his body, he looks something like an overstuffed sock puppet. But you’re not out of the woods; the man notices you and flees the hug with an air of curious whimsy.

“Ooh, a new face! And who might you be, a friend of Luther’s?” he greets.

You take a hand previous stuffed into a pocket out to shake his. “_______. And I’m not a friend.”

He considers your hand and your words with reluctance, and wordlessly, claps your shoulder with an ease that only a close friend would do. You’re saved, however, by a new face exiting from the roller-door. He’s in the same overalls as the man beside you, but with less grease over his limbs and guarded expression.

“Klaus. Let the poor girl go.” The other man shook his head. By his expression alone, you weren’t sure if the other mechanic was annoyed, or amused. Either way, you were grateful for his interference. Klaus side-stepped from embracing you, his arms behind his back. You couldn’t help but feel as if he was regarding you like a painting at a museum, or a crushed ice-cream on the sidewalk. “…you’re finished with the Nissan already, Luther?”

“It was just bodywork - apart from the transmission.”

The other man nods, moving past Luther to you. He stands there for a second, taking you in. “You must be the _______ I heard about. I’m Ben.” He looks to Klaus beside you, and adds, “I’ve got to talk business with the big guy, go make yourself busy for an hour.”

You feel your throat grow dry as Klaus clasps his hand in yours, interlocking his fingers with yours. You remember as an adolescent, you’d do the same with your friends. But a significant amount of time had passed since then, and all those friends were eons away, and your lives changed in so many ways. You go to pull away from his grasp, but he tightens his touch.

“There isn’t much to do in a place like this, but I have a feeling that you’re someone who doesn’t shy away from Margheritas in the morning,” he beams.

“I don’t drink.” You reply. 

“Sober, I like it. So am I!” Klaus’ smile deepens, and he begins to lead you off the property. “Come on, a little birdy told me you like to read, let’s go to the library before the pesky kids borrow all the good books.”

You couldn’t help but crack a smile at that. Even though you’d quite literally gone through all seven circles of hell within the last year, it seemed to be that there was at least a saving grace that you were here with Klaus, as opposed to being stuck at Luther’s place, staring at the wall, or worse, caught by the same guys who were after your brother Frankie.

It was a short walk to the library, only two blocks. The town was small, by any standards: it reminded you of some sort of prairie town from a wild west movie. Klaus seemed to know everyone, or, everyone knew Klaus; the mother walking with her stroller exchanged a greeting, a youth running late for school, as well as a handful of shopkeepers. You kept your head down, inspecting the pavement at every turn. Klaus had thankfully unlatched his hand to shoot a finger-gun at the kid, and later high-five the owner of the bakery.

“Don’t tell me everyone knows you.” You muttered, somewhat uncomfortable. By being in his proxy, there were eyes on you; something you hadn’t ever had to deal with before.

He shrugged. “It’s a small town, _______. All us Hargreeves grew up here.” He beams and gestures after the child running into the gates of the school. “I remember when that kid was born. His dad and I used to make-out under the bleachers.”

“It’s just - Luther said to-,”

“Screw Luther! He’s not here, is he?”

“But he, and Detective H-,”

“Those guys are _bo-oring_. Live a little! Get freaky! _Wave_ to someone you don’t know!” he goaded.

You roll your eyes. He did have a point; even though you were terrified of being caught by the people who were chasing Frankie, there wasn’t any harm to stop freaking out over the little things. Slowly, as you both crossed the road to the library, you unfurled your hand and waved hesitantly at an elderly couple.

“You didn’t explode, did you?” he teases.

The library is built inside an old cathedral, perhaps one of the early ones from when the town was first settled. The bookshelves are where the pews would have been, the alter where the librarian’s borrowing desk positioned, with hand-drawn posters themed around pro-reading (‘_Having Fun Isn’t Hard When You Have A Library Card!_’) hung where the religious art would have been in its heyday. Perhaps it was the sight of it or the way that the light that filtered through the stained glass across it all that took your breath away, but nonetheless, you were certainly enchanted.

“Not bad, eh?” Klaus grinned. “Come on! The comics are this way.”

As he divulged toward the graphic novels, you took your time to graze through the pastures, walking like a ghost guided by memory through the Dewy decimal organised shelves. There were so many titles that you’d missed out on, having been away in witness protection, and before that, busy with an unadulterated life. Before you knew it, though, your arms were full of novels, and there were books that you wanted to read _still_. When you found Klaus, he was sat cross-legged in his mechanics overalls in the kids’ section, reading a copy of _Asterix and Obelix_ with a picture of a cheese wheel on the cover.

“Enjoying yourself?” you ask, motioning your full arms toward his read.

“They’re in Switzerland in this one,” Klaus closes the book and joins your side. He motions to the borrowing desk, and adds, eyeing your pile, “It’s a page-turner, sure -- but I think you’ll need a card to check _those_ out.”

“Don’t _you_ have a card?” you ask.

Klaus laughs. “Not since the great Apple Juice Spill of ’98. I read in here.” Replacing the _Asterix _book on clearly the wrong shelf, Klaus adds, “but I know a librarian. I can hook you up.”

It turns out that the librarian had dated Klaus in high school, and with no less than half an hour of banter, and convincing her to link yours with Luther’s - _“_______’s staying with him when her car gets fixed, she was driving through, and it was like, the worst crash ever except _______ got out without too much of a scrape!_” - and soon, you’re walking out with almost fifteen novels.

“That was a solid fib,” you praise Klaus on the walk back.

“You’re very much welcome.”

He bows to you in response. There are fewer people out and about on the walk back, but as Klaus passes the post office, he ducks inside and comes out with a nondescript package. It’s wrapped up the old-fashioned way, brown paper and string, and the address on it is a looped handwritten script. But just as he didn’t say a thing about how many of your borrowed novels were romances, you don’t ask a thing.

You left Luther’s house this morning just after breakfast, and now, the sun is high in the sky. It’s an unusually warm day for autumn, and carrying your load feels heavier than it truly is. But before long, you’re nearing the autobody shop. From what you can see, Ben is loading a car - a deep-set green Bentley with its bonnet almost all smashed into concavity - upon a tow-truck with the shop’s logo upon its the door. Luther guides the car onto the ramp of the truck, and standing still, you and Klaus watch as the two of them mount the car safely.

“So…if Luther doesn’t own the shop, who does?”

“Ben and me,” Klaus replies. “A gift from our somewhat rich, shitty, dead dad.”

"Oh," you blink. “So…you, Ben - Luther _and_ Diego are all Hargreeves?” you ask Klaus before you return to earshot of the others.

He waves his hand, a _so-so_ gesture. “We’re all adopted - fostered if you will. Alas, even though we look like the diversity poster in an HR office, we’re brothers.” He pauses, and adds, with vigour, “But you’ve only met half of us Hargreeves! Maybe next time Luther lets you roam free, you’ll meet -,”

“Yo _dumbass_!” Ben calls out, “stop chatting and do your job!”

“Ooh, I’m scared!” Klaus mock-cowers but complies. “See you around, _______.”

With your books in your clutches, you approach Luther and the truck. Ben excuses himself, saying he’s got to find his keys, leaving you and Luther together, alone in the parking lot of the shop. He looks at your collection of books, without much emotion coming through his face. What you’d do to have that sort of poker face.

“You got some books,” he notes.

“They’re due in two weeks, so you can’t keep me locked away forever.” You retort. He doesn’t have anything to say to that, and, in absence of his response, you gesture to the truck with your laden arms. “Is that our ride?”

“Sure is,” Ben replies, returning. He hasn’t got keys with him; perhaps its because they’re still in the ignition of the truck. There’s a beat that passes, and you and Luther stay where you stand, unsure where to go. “…unless you’re waiting for the world to end, we can leave now,” Ben adds.

“Okay.”

“Sorry,” you mutter.

The drive back to Luther’s place is quiet, interrupted only by the radio news theme declaring the one o’clock headlines. Ben turns it down, but seeing your expression, changes the channel to something else. You thank him and say no more for the rest of the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where's my Luther lovers at? (we might be a small community in TUA but we're here and loving our monkey man!


	3. the hargreeves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stir-crazy, reader finds herself invited to meet Luther's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't kill me for not updating in so long...

While reading was a wonderful outlet of your otherwise wasted brain, there was an agitation that came alongside it. You weren’t the most active person before all of this mess, but there was so much pent up energy in your system that it was starting to drive you stir-crazy, despite the fact that Luther now let you come out the house every so often for more books. He’s still working on the Bentley; there’s more than just rebuilding the engine that must happen.

And while you’re very glad to be out of Luther’s way, it did get lonely - which you’d hate to admit. If it were any other reason for your near-house arrest, you’d ask the guy to let you go for morning runs. Maybe even get a job in town, stocking shelves at the hardware store. But seeing as there were a group of madmen after Frankie, and by extension, you, you didn’t ask a thing of Luther.

Well, almost.

“Is there anything else to do in this house, apart from chores?” you asked him, over the drying up.

Luther stilled at the sink, his large shoulders tensing up. You wondered if you’d struck a chord with him, or perhaps he just wasn’t used to your abrupt turn of phrasing yet, but then he said, “Chores are important to make it all run smooth.”

You pout. “Yeah, maybe if you like rules.” You didn’t add, _the rules are boring_.

Luther looked sidewards at you. It had gotten to the point in your relationship of sharing a roof with the large man that he’d give you nonverbal messages; frowns, scrunched noses, sometimes ground teeth. This message was a side-eye that made you think he was either holding back a handful of sass or devout to a sense of order.

“Apart from your books, there are chores, and the cars I work on,” he states.

It’s like he’s saying facts, from a textbook. A small voice in your head wondered if perhaps _he’s _been under near-house arrest here too and knows just what you’re going through as well. But that sounded far-fetched and too humanising for the literal brick wall that stood beside you.

“I can be a spotter,” you supplied, hopeful.

“You already said,” Luther hands you a plate, and unhooks the plug from the sink. “But we’ll talk about that later. I have to go out this afternoon.”

You frown. The only reason Luther left the house was grocery shopping - perhaps the most boring task ever, to which you were never invited - and to return your books, and by extension, the cars he worked on for _H&H Autobody and Motor_. Slowly, you dry the last plate up, placing it carefully on the pile.

“Can you return a couple of books for me then?” you ask.

“Sure,” he replies. “…but if you want to you can do them yourself.”

You frown at that. “Is - is this your way of saying I’m allowed to tag along?”

There’s more silence. You’ve come to know that that’s a common theme with a conversation with Luther. It’s okay. To be honest, the silence was either disgruntling or somewhat appreciated, and this one was a nice silence. As he busied himself with the final acts of cleaning up after the chore, you didn’t make another comment, instead of focusing on your own job.

“It’s my mom’s birthday.” He says after a while.

“I don’t want to intrude -,”

“I’m sure she won’t mind.” Luther wiped his hands on your tea towel, taking it into his hands. You still had a cup to dry, and you waited patiently for him to return the cloth to you. “She took in seven kids, I’m sure she won’t mind meeting another.”

You frown, snaring the towel from his grip. Silently, you finish the last of your job and set to the mundane task of returning everything to its place. Arming yourself with the mugs, they went away easily. As did the cutlery, and the assortment of dried plates. Well, almost. You were having a little trouble with the last few since the cupboard was higher than you, and the stack too high to reach now.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“No!” you scoff. “I can do this.” You put the last two plates upon the bench, and with little effort, raise yourself up on the bench as well. On your knees, you’re taller, and put the last plates away, and, look to Luther from just above his eye-level. “See?”

He chuckles, but there isn’t a trace of a smile on his face. “Yeah, I see.” He looks at the clock above the fireplace, and adds, “Go get dressed. We’ve got half an hour before we go.”

“Are you taking the Bentley?” you ask, returning to your feet.

“It’s not ready.” Luther shakes his head. “Ben’s giving us a lift.”

* * *

When Ben comes, it’s in his own car. It’s a black 2005 Honda Civic with custom leather seats. Luther takes the passenger seat, and you’re in the back. It’s a nice car, with lovely air conditioning, and the speakers on it lull a soft version of the local radio hits, put on low. You expect that’s for background noise since Luther’s not a talker, but it turns out that all he needed was the right person to talk _to_.

“We’ve all agreed to not let her do anything today, okay? No cooking, cleaning, hell, if Klaus fucks up, don’t make her have to fix his shit up.” Ben tells Luther. He drives in a similar way to Detective Hargreeves did, except, when he’s faced with an orange light, he guns it. “Did you get the present?”

“I got the card,” Luther replies quickly, and adds, “I thought Klaus was -,”

“Shit, yeah, he was getting the present.” In the rear-view mirror, you can see Ben visually wince. You wonder why they’re so harsh on Klaus; he was nothing if not lovely albeit, quirky last time you met him. “-and if anyone says anything about Vanya’s job, it’ll go south again. Don’t let anyone bring it up.”

“Who is Vanya?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Our sister,” Ben replies.

In the rear-view mirror, you meet Luther’s cold grey eyes. “You didn’t say you had sisters,” you accuse, unsure. Every time you learned something new about this family, it became bigger and bigger. First, it was Detective Hargreeves’ relation to Luther, and out of nowhere came Ben and Klaus. And this morning, he said there were seven Hargreeves’ in all? It’s confusing, to say the least.

“…and she’s coming?” you wonder.

“She might be late, last I heard,” Luther adds.

The car pulls into a small road, just off the main street of the town. You haven’t seen this side of the small town, but it’s nice. There are neatly kept houses, each their own faded colour, with lawns that are equally trimmed. It’s as perfect like a postcard. Ben pulls into the driveway of the ninth house. There’s already two cars there; a sleek Lexus and a brand-new Beetle car. As you all disembark, you notice that Luther has trouble getting out of this car too; you swear that the man is built like a line-backer.

You’re not two steps from the car when the front door opens. A woman is at the door; she looks like she’s part of the postcard image too. She’s aged alongside the house, but you can picture her looking just as 1950’s chic as the house did in its heyday. She wears a neatly pressed floral dress with a Peter Pan collar, crème stockings, and aquamarine kitten heels. Her lips are painted red, and her hair is curled.

“Ben! Luther!” she calls out, waving happily.

“Hey Mom,” Luther says back.

You hesitate. You hadn’t quite thought it through; in the rush to be outside of Luther’s house, a residence in lieu of your witness protection, you hadn’t thought about what was happening. It was Luther’s - well, all the Hargreeves’ - mother’s birthday. Ever since the divorce - a messy thing for a couple of middle school kids to go through - you and your brother ran in some wrong circles. After your father died behind the wheel, you were able to cure your habits. But Frankie? He couldn’t, and those ghosts still chased you.

“You okay?” Ben asks, quiet.

You take a deep breath, steel yourself, and walk alongside him. “Sure I am.”

As Ben nears, he’s fussed over by his mother. She’s just a little shorter than him, and yet, you can see the family dynamic; as Luther tries to pass her, he’s shared the same love. You can see that the two men love their adopted parent, but there’s terseness that comes to outwardly expressed affection.

“and who’s this?” she asks, her gaze falling upon you. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Grace, the children’s mother.”

The others go to speak, but you take charge. “I’m _______. I -,” your gaze flitters to Luther - whose expressionless face doesn’t give you a clue on what to say - to which you say, “I’m a friend of de-Diego’s. I’ve been staying with Luther for the last month until I’m back on my feet.”

If your nervous stammer that comes along with lying to a perfectly nice woman would make anyone else alerted, it doesn’t to Grace. Instead, she only smiles wider and brings you into her embrace.

“A friend of Diego’s is a friend of the family,” she brushes off your shoulders, looking you square in the eyes. “Come on in. Since he can’t be here, you can sit in for him.”

Grace leads you all inside the house, a lovely two-story building with lovely hardwood floors and aging wallpaper. There’s a family photo in the entranceway; you recognise Luther by his nose and Klaus from the unruly hair. Ben is still Ben with his expressionless smile, and you know which child Diego is by the scar. There are two girls in the photo; one with flat hair, the other with natural curls. And there’s another child, standing beside Diego, with dark hair cut like Ringo Star in the early Beatles photos.

“Is everyone here yet because I am _tired_ of keeping this a secret!” you hear Klaus lament.

Entering the dining room, you see him, elbows propped against the wood, the chair he’s sitting at pushed back, with his long legs at strange angles. Beside him on the floor, a young girl plays with a doll. She looks so much like the girl in the photo you just saw - and almost a mirror image of her, but older, sitting at the table beside Klaus. She wears a red bodycon dress, her lips and nails painted a similar shade, and her mouth is pulled back into a smile.

“Uncle Ben! Uncle Luther!” the child cries out, fleeing her doll.

You watch as she ploughs into Luther, wrapping her arms as far as she can reach across his legs. He stumbles, his face contorting in a shade of pain that you recognise from when he’s been overexerted following his work on the Bentley.

“Hey, Claire-Bear,” Ben wrestles her from Luther, picking her up. “Woah! You’ve gotten big!”

“I’m _eight_!” she beams.

“Claire, you’re too big for Uncle Ben to pick up,” the woman in red shakes her head at the man holding the child, with an air of concern. “Mom, tell Ben he’ll pull a muscle.”

But instead of doing that, Grace takes Claire from her son’s arms, replacing her on the floor. In a clean sweep, she picks up the astray dolls, a pair of shoes left nearby, and beelines toward the seat at the table beside the end.

“Today’s not a day for fighting. Besides, we have a guest,” she gestures toward you with a smile and motions to the people milling around her to take a seat. “Oh, where did Quinten go? I should -,”

“I’ll find him,” Luther offers.

“I’ll get the cake!” Claire beams.

“…I’ll help her,” Ben whispers.

You take a seat at the table, beside the woman. She smells nice, and she offers you her hand to shake. It’s been a while since you’ve done anything self-care wise, and you feel conscious shaking her manicured nails. But her smile is warm and genuine.

“I’m Allison,” she says, charming. “I haven’t seen Luther this happy about a stranger to the family since -,” she pauses to think, “…well, never.”

You blink. “How do you know I came with Luther?”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Well, he never drives these days, and Ben’s only into his exotic pets when it comes to home life.” The way she says _home life _makes you wonder if she means something different, but before you can ask her, she adds, placing her elbows on the table to near herself to you, lowering her face into them. Her gaze is intent, and you feel slightly under pressure to give her what she wants. “So,” she adds, “How did you meet?”

Beside her, Klaus watches you.

“I - I know your brother Diego,” you say, just like you told Grace. “I’m in a - a tight spot, and Luther let me stay at his place for a while.”

Klaus beams at you. Had your ability to lie improved in the last five minutes? If this wasn’t the first remotely social event that you’d been to in what felt like years, you’d congratulate yourself on that minor feat.

“That’s nice of him,” Allison smiles, and reminiscing, adds, “…but Klaus, you were the one who brought strays in as a kid.”

“Don’t talk about the possum!” he stage-whispers.

You would have listened in more to his response, but it was then when Luther descended from the stairs and entered the room. The sight of a man behind him caught your breath and stashed it elsewhere. Everything around you seemed to fade until it was like a slow-motion cut in a movie. You could _hear _the blood thumping in your ears.

He had dark hair that was gelled back, and dark eyes too. As tall as Luther, with a crisp white dress shirt, and a tie that matched the bags under his eyes. But it wasn’t that he was exceptionally attractive or anything else; it was that you’d seen that man before.

The night that Frankie had been sent on the run.

Quickly, you armed yourself with one of the butter knives from the table. And you fled from the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm on holidays now and I'll try to write as much as I can now !


	4. the clean slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afraid, you flee the Hargreeve's family house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For face claims, I think a grown-up Five would look like [Ezra Miller](http://www3.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Ezra+Miller+Haiti+Carnival+Cannes+Benefitting+x1varg9Mbk5l.jpg). Just my headcanon, don't flame pls

You made it to the street before you heard your name shouted from the house. You couldn’t go back. Not when _that_ man was there. You couldn’t hear your thoughts. They were so loud, and so hard to comprehend. But your feet translated that fear, and you ran. You continued to run, running like a nutcase down the street, butterknife in hand.

There was nowhere to go.

Everywhere in this small town was known by this family, and yet, you didn’t think that fact yet.

You just ran.

If anyone noticed you running, you didn’t take them into account. But before you knew it, you were at the library in the converted cathedral. There were families milling around the entrance, and hastily, you moved past it, toward the bell tower.

It was a separate building; perhaps an afterthought of architecture. It looked like it belonged in France, where Quasimodo would live at the top, and lament his existence in a novel about intolerance in fifteenth-century Paris. But for you, it was a haven. Throwing open the door, you drew your limbs close to yourself at the foot of the stairs.

* * *

_It had been a day like any other. There had been a cookout in the back yard, water sprinklers churning tufts of water into the air to stifle the heat. Your brother’s friends were there, their cars all around the yard. One of their stereos played EDM, a few of the cars had their bonnets up. You hung in the shade, beside the barbeque, watching everything in shorts and a flannel. _

_That part of the memory didn’t feel like it could connect to the next, and yet, not fifteen minutes after you served the burger patties, there was an attack of gate crashers to the cookout. From what Frankie had told you, many of them were unwelcome to the gathering; from what you knew, they were rivals of sorts. But with them were two people you had never seen before; a black woman with pink hair, and a stocky white man. And in a hoodie, a dark-haired man with bags under his eyes._

_You weren’t quite sure what caused it, but guns were pulled out; there were screams, and Frankie’s friend Joe fell. You screamed too. You ran to Frankie’s car, trying to get cover. Cowering. Frankie ran past and you pulled him to your hiding spot. Snagged the keys from his jeans. More shots were fired. There was a break, and taking the risk, you threw yourself into the car, shouting for Frankie to get in too. _

_As you sped out, you saw three shooters. The woman with pink hair, the stocky man, and the man in the hoodie._

He’d been in Grace Hargreeves’ house. He found you.

* * *

The door to the tower opened. You flinched. You didn’t even look to see who it was, and brandishing the butter knife, you held it before you with both hands.

“_______, it’s me,” you heard Luther’s voice.

Cracking open an eye, you saw him. He took up all the frame of the doorway, the light from outside only shining behind his head like a halo of sorts. But of all people from the Hargreeves’ family who could have followed you, you didn’t want to see Luther at all.

“He’s here. He found me!” you cried out, afraid.

“Who? he asked. “Are you talking about Quin?”

“The-the man, the - he shot at us!” you felt the fear taking over, shoving the words the wrong way in your throat. “He and his psycho friends!”

There was a silence between you. You still held the knife out, but with every second waiting for a rebuttal, you felt like a complete weirdo. Even though your fear was completely and totally justified.

“Put the knife down,” Luther raised his hands.

You pointed the butterknife further toward him. But he didn’t flinch. No sign of fear, he reached out, and took it from you. Which, to be honest, you weren’t expecting at all. Even if it had been a blunt instrument used for spreading honey on toast, it had been a weapon in your hands, and robbed of it, there was nothing left to protect you from the threat.

“Give it back!” you cry out, aghast.

“No.”

You scramble back up the stairs, putting space between yourselves, feeling very much like a wounded animal would, or a woman pushed into a corner.

“It’s from my Mom’s good set, she’ll be wanting it back,” Luther adds, putting it into his pocket. Slowly, he closed the door to the bell tower behind him. The room was cast in a quasi-darkness, mostly because of his broad shoulders taking up half the space. “I know Diego left you at my door for a reason, but it isn’t because my - our - brother is after you.” He says, slowly, as if explaining something to a small child. “Quinten is on your side, _______.”

You blink, unsure. “He was there, the night of the -,” you can’t finish it. “He had a gun!”

“He does have a gun. Many people do.” Luther acknowledged. “But Quinn’s in law enforcement.”

Indignant, you huff. “Is all of that supposed to make me feel better?”

Luther scratches at the scruff upon the lower half of his face. “Look, _______, I know he spooked you, but Quin isn’t who you’re supposed to be afraid of. What kind of guy would I be if I took you to a place where a guy after you is?”

“How am I to know if you are that guy?” you cry out, feeling hot tears prick at your face. “You’re hardly chattier than the other guy I had to put up with last time I went into protection! All I know about you is you don’t talk much and have a massive family! You could be an axe murderer, for all I know, or - or a sex fiend!”

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything, and you stand there, the only sound you can hear nearby being the throbbing of your heart beneath your chest. Slowly, you take a breath, inhaling sharply, exhaling with an attempt at placating the thrumming of your pulse, and you focus once more onto the situation at hand.

“Are you a sex fiend?”

“No!” he says. 

“So…you’re…socially awkward?” you ask him.

“I mean, among other things,” he says quietly, “Can you fault me? I’ve never been the best at making friends.”

“Yeah, actually.” You retort, only somewhat meaning it.

There’s a beat that passes between you, and then,

“Hi, I’m Luther Hargreeves,” he puts his hand out to you. You look at it as he goes on to say, “I’m a mechanic. I - I used to play football. I like to read when it’s raining, I make my own meatloaf, and when I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut.”

You blink, unsure what to do next.

Slowly, you put your hand in his.

“Hi Luther,” you say, trying to meet his eyes.

He waits.

“I’m _______ _______. I used to be a receptionist for a veterinarian. I like…I like to read in any weather,” you swipe away your drying tears with your other hand, “- I get housebound really easily and love taking walks, and…I miss my brother.”

His hand is so big, and it almost folds over the sides of yours as he pulls you close to him. You almost think he’s about to take you in a choke hold, but he only helps you to your feet.

“I don’t know about how soon it is until you’ll see your brother,” Luther says, voice low. You’re unsure if he’s trying to be comforting, or just keep his tone down, “so why don’t you substitute him for one of mine? I have plenty to share.”

* * *

All goes well after you re-join the Hargreeves family table. Klaus says something to Grace to put her mind at ease, and Claire sits beside you at the table with her doll, playing with it beneath the table. On your other side is Ben, and he fiddles with his fork. Come to think of it, there’s only spoons and forks at the table now. The man you learnt the name of as Quinten, sits beside his mother, opposite you.

“Sorry I spooked you,” he says. He has a voice that sounds like it’s mostly used for snark, and a face that, if he slept regular hours, would look attractive. “You’ve got a good eye. I didn’t think you noticed me that day.”

“It was a hard day to not notice,” you reply.

“Is it time for cake?” Klaus interrupts, getting up.

“I’ll help,” Allison adds.

You look at your hands as they retreat into the kitchen. Quinten is talking with Grace, and Ben is flicking through some photos on his phone with Claire. When you look up, you meet Luther’s eyes. He gives you a small smile, and you try to return it.

“There’s a spare seat, still,” you say, almost half-heartedly.

“Oh, that’s Vanya’s,” Grace says, overhearing. “She’s always busy, poor thing.”

“She always has better things to do,” Quinten interjects. He sounds bored. “and to think, I can make time, and I’m a federal -,”

He’s interrupted by the beginnings of song, burst out from Klaus himself. It sounds just like he’s trying to sing but he sounds like someone with strep throat mixed with the awful singing from the seagull from The Little Mermaid. You suspect that he can sing better, but it makes Claire giggle. The wailing turns into something else, something you very much know the tune of. Allison, Ben - well, everyone joins in. You glance to Luther, and he hums along, a small smile sent your way. The cake is set in front of Grace, the candles afire.

“…happy birthday, mom-gramma-grace -- happy birthday to you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm currently in a triple-whammy situation -- a lil writer's block, a lotta uni work & a lil bit of no free time. i'll update this when i can -- it isn't abandoned!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
